


That's That

by bazaar



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-16
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2019-03-05 11:48:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13387182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bazaar/pseuds/bazaar
Summary: Sometimes, Hawkeye thinks she's under-appreciated.





	That's That

She wonders sometimes why a man of thirty—a man who plans on leading an entire country one day—also plans his weeknights around chasing the thieves and low-lifes that emerge out of Central's roughest slums.

It's not that he enjoys getting his ass handed to him. It doesn't happen very often, but when she has to watch him moan and groan from a hospital bed, she also has to watch her patience and her resolve slip silently away. She knows from a hundred too many experiences that he might well be the most irritating man on earth when he's injured, what with all the complaining and neediness and the painkiller-induced confessions of love. _Those_ she could do without.

"Your days of thievery have come to an end!"

Riza Hawkeye would have been completely content showing up to a fight she'd been ordered to stay out of and for _once_ not hear her commanding officer spouting all sorts of ridiculous lines he'd thought up while drunk. She's had to listen to his tirades before, but when the annoyance is coupled will a few kicks and punches and first degree burns, it makes her head pound. This criminal in particular has just landed a poorly executed kick to the colonel's face when she finally pulls her handgun from its holster. Her superior crumples, shouting obscenities and the scene is so perfect she almost smiles, but rethinks it because she _is_ supposed to be protecting his sorry ass.

The gun goes off, and the shot is perfect. She gets him in the leg—a clean hit. Not fatal, not even critical, but the thug goes down all the same. Immediately after, there's two grown men swearing like sailors on the damp cobblestone.

"Hawkeye!" Is the colonel's aggravated groan when he notices her between his bare fingers. "I told you to stay by the car, dammit!"

She cuffs the felon, pulls him up on his uninjured leg before responding, "My apologies, colonel. You seemed distressed."

"Distressed? I'm not—god, _ow!_ "

"Your nose is broken, sir."

He glares at her, and for the second time, she almost breaks her cool and smiles. But she doesn't, she's too well-trained for that. She keeps her cool all the way through the MPs showing up and the colonel's grumbled report. He's covering his nose, blood all over the hands he'd decidedly kept un-gloved for the sake of the challenge.

When the felon is carted off and the MPs thank them for their service, the colonel is the first to speak. "I need a drink."

"You need a _bandage_ ,” she says, and she means it. His face looks like a collection of differently sized tomatoes, and he's leaning heavily on one leg. "Do you need an escort home?"

He sighs and starts for the car, which, since she knows him so well, she takes as a yes.

Sitting obediently by the front wheel is Hayate. His eyes are trained on his master, but when the colonel leans down to give him a scratch between his ears and opens the front door for him to jump in, her dog looks questioningly between them.

She nods towards the open car door, and he obeys, but not before he licks the back of the colonel’s hand.

They don't speak on the ride back to his apartment—he's too busy nursing his wounds and she's too busy enjoying the silence. She knows that tomorrow he'll come up with some outrageous story about how he was injured to tell to Havoc and the others, and it probably will involve him going out in one of his literal blazes of glory. She's all too used to it—how he needs to keep up his ridiculous appearances. But even if he conveniently forgets to mention her in his escapades, the others always know that she got him out of whatever mess he got himself into.

"Thanks,” he says, breaking the silence as they pull up to his place.

She's honestly surprised. "Sir?"

"Thank you, lieutenant. I'm glad you stepped in when you did."

She frowns, now concerned. "How hard did he hit you?"

"Obviously hard enough for me to want to thank you,” he says and grins like the idiot she knows he is. "Can you help me up?"

"Giving thanks _and_ asking for help? I'll phone the hospital."

He just continues smiling as she helps him out of the car.

They're at his door with more than enough fumbling and fanfare and he's trying to unlock the door when he asks something he shouldn't.

"Can you come inside for a moment?”

She almost protests, just like she'd almost smiled before, but with the shape he's in, she can also assume that he needs her help.

So she helps him inside, helps him out of his jacket and his shirt like she has a million times before, but she's roaming dangerously close to uncharted territory when he can't get himself out of his pants. He's obviously been whacked in the knee more than once because he can't move it enough to pull his boot off.

"Lieutenant?" he calls from the floor while she's buried in the medicine cabinet.

She pulls out some painkillers and rubbing alcohol and when she looks down, he's in his boxers, pants around his ankles and she's only ever seen that look on Hayate when he'd been left out in the rain by accident. "Do you need some help, sir?"

"Please?" he asks like he's five years old again, covered in bruises and cuts. The principle is the same, it's just that the cuts and bruises are more like broken bones and gaping wounds. She pulls his boots off and can't help but think while he's pulling his pants and socks off, that this might be crossing the line when it comes to a subordinate and her commanding officer. But the thought doesn’t last long.

He starts the hot water, gulping down the painkillers she's handed him. "If I'd known keeping the peace involved this, I think I would have stuck to farm work."

"First of all," she begins, dressing the wounds on his forearms. "you were _not_ keeping any kind of peace. Secondly, you've never done a day of honest farm work in your life."

"What makes you think I've never farmed, lieutenant? You haven't known me my _whole_ life."

“I know you well enough to know that you’ve never done farm work.”

And the statement is so matter-of-fact that it shuts him up, for which she is infinitely grateful. She asks him again if he needs help, to which he waves her off with a sigh. She knows when she’s been dismissed, and moves to leave. When she’s in the foyer, however, the colonel’s voice carries from the bathroom.

“Thank you again, Lieutenant,” he says, and that’s that.

On her way home she replays the thanks again and again in her head. She turns to Hayate, curled up on the bench seat beside her, then back to the street.

 

* * *

 

At work the next morning, the confrontation in the street is all but gone from her mind.

She’s at her desk with a cup of coffee Feury’s made for her, absently scratching Hayate between his ears where he sits by her chair. Falman and Havoc are deep in a discussion she only catches bits of, and Breda’s propped his head up in his hand, eyes drooping. The latter is _supposed_ to be finishing a report for her approval, but since there’s still an empty chair, she figures the task will be better relegated to their latest arrival.

 _Speak of the devil and he shall appear_ , she thinks to herself, watching as Roy Mustang hobbles into the room.

Unsurprisingly, Havoc is the first to speak. “Damn, colonel! What happened to _you?_ ”

“Another run-in with the pavement, sir?” Breda croons, now substantially more awake.

“Your nose looks broken, colonel.” Is Falman’s input.

“ _Really_ broken,” Feury adds.

But Riza says nothing, just watches as the colonel makes it a point to glare at them all before he plops down in his chair, presses his fingers to his temples. There’s the soft tinkle of Hayate’s collar as he rises from the floor and trots over to where the colonel is leant back in his seat. The others have turned back to their own conversations, but Riza watches her dog nudge Roy in the leg. He cracks an eye, then two, and then a smile.

She knows he’s grumpy, knows that when she has to ask him for all twelve reports he’s behind on, he’ll be nothing if not difficult. Hayate knows too, it seems. Roy’s demeanor changes as he leans down to pass a bare hand over his head, scratching where Riza has explained he enjoys. Once this ends, Roy leans back again, satisfied, and she takes the opening.

“Good morning, sir. You have twelve reports due by noon.”

Contrary to everything she knows to be true of Morning Roy, he just nods and pulls the papers from where she’s set them on his desk.

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” he says, and she’s not sure whether to frown or to check his temperature.

She’s not the only one—Breda catches her eye across the room.

“ _No whining?_ ” Breda’s look asks.

“ _Strange,_ ” hers answers.

She looks back in time to catch Hayate coming back to his place beside her desk. He sits, and she pats him idly, wondering how deftly her superior had been kicked the night before.

For a long while, the entire office works in silence. She’s halfway through a legal preceding she barely understands when she notices that Havoc is leant up against the colonel’s desk, knowing smirk around an unlit cigarette.

“I think we’re missing a story, colonel,” he singsongs, “as much as I’d _like_ to think you just tripped…”

“I wouldn’t put it past him,” Breda adds, “That’s how he got that black eye, remember?”

He’s not wrong. A stray rock on a bad morning had sent him careening into a doorknob. She’d been there. They’d _all_ been there. But she sees his shoulders tensing now, his pencil stiff between his fingers. As much as she enjoys when the others poke fun at him (although she’d never openly admit it) she also needs those reports finished, and not _singed_. She’s about to intervene when that tinkle comes from her side again, and Hayate trots back over to the colonel’s desk.

She watches the exchange again. Watches Roy’s shoulders relax and his mood lighten.

 _Interesting,_ she thinks.

“Not much of a story,” he begins, “Lieutenant Hawkeye saved me a trip to the hospital.”

She turns to him sharply. Everyone does.

“Well… obviously,” Havoc says at length.

The colonel raises an eyebrow. “Then what are you asking?”

“How you…” Breda begins, then shakes his head off like he’s been slapped. “Wait, what?”

There’s a long moment of staring, and Riza finds that she feels much like Breda.

“What’s the problem?” Roy asks, now back to his reports.

“You’ve never really… admitted that,” Feury says, shrinking in his seat when Roy looks to him.

“I mean, we _know_ ,” Havoc continues, “but you’ve never _said_ it.”

The colonel frowns, catches Riza’s eyes where she’s watching him her own desk. She simply raises an eyebrow, but she’s more than a little shocked that he’s forgone all of his fake bravado in exchange for the truth.

“It goes without saying, I suppose,” Roy says at last, and that’s that.

Hayate’s back by her side after the exchange, and the others share a few questioning looks before returning to their work. She looks down at her dog, then at her commanding officer. He’s scanning a report with much more interest that she’s _ever_ seen him give any paperwork. Hayate huffs quietly by her leg, laying his head on the ground.

 

* * *

 

“I thought State Alchemists weren’t required to pass marksmanship training.”

“We’re not,” Roy says, shit-eating grin plastered on his recovering face, “but you know I’m a terrible shot. Well, _everyone’s_ a terrible shot compared to you.”

The praise isn’t exactly lost on her, but she still just shakes her head and turns the corner to the range. Below her, Hayate keeps at her side, matching her pace. “Handgun or rifle?”

“Let’s start small,” he decides, pulling his gloves off and folding them into his pocket. “I’d like to be able to tag a criminal in the leg at a hundred yards.”

“It wasn’t a hundred yards,” she says, “not even close.”

“Fifty?”

“Try again, sir.”

“Twenty—“ She gives him a look. “…feet.”

“Give or take.”

“But you could have done it at a hundred yards. At _two_ hundred. I’d like that kind of accuracy, and I _believe_ I heard somewhere that you are—what was it…” He pretends to mull over the thought, tapping his finger to his chin as she readies their pistols. “Oh yes! ‘The best shot in all Amestris.’”

She hands him the gun. “Get in position, sir.”

He tosses her a smirk and she resists the urge to pistol-whip him. She moves to set their things far behind, and Hayate sits in front of her bag. She scratches under his chin in thanks. He’s not a guard dog by any stretch of the imagination, but she sometimes thinks that her training has made him into one.

She returns to the colonel, who’s being surprisingly patient and attentive. He raises the pistol downrange.

Riza loses track of time. She’s never been much of an instructor—a sniper is always most effective alone—but Roy isn’t as bad a shot as he says he is. She knows this, knows that he has some ulterior motive for asking for her guidance. She isn’t complaining. It makes her feel of much more value than filing paperwork or trying to get forms notarized.

After what has to be hours, she can see the first signs of frustration crease the colonel’s mouth. He’s been trying to hit the furthest and smallest mark for the better half of an hour, and has been missing by smaller and smaller margins as time’s worn on. She asks him to take a break, but she knows this Roy. It’s the same one who nearly passed out from hunger in her father’s study. Determined, focused, and hardheaded. Sometimes she thinks that they’re a lot alike.

After he’s emptied the clip, having missed the mark again, he lets out a hard sigh and slams the gun down, searching for more bullets.

“We can come back tomorrow, sir,” she tries.

“No. I’ll get this today.”

He sounds aggravated, but she knows it’s at himself. She’s cleaning her own gun, satisfied with her performance when Hayate pads over to the colonel as he rifles angrily through a box of surplus ammo. Riza watches this exchange with interest. Hayate nudges Roy’s leg with the flat of his head, and Roy stops, looks down, and then kneels down. She can _see_ his temper dissipate as he takes Hayate’s head between his hands and scratches. Hayate’s tongue lolls out of his mouth.

“He relaxes you, doesn’t he?” she says, not trying to keep the small smile off her face.

Roy looks up at her. He smiles back. “He does. He’s a lot like his owner.”

It’s sweet. It’s very sweet, but Riza just shakes her head. “I’m not going to appreciate chin scratches as much as he does.”

“Maybe not,” Roy says with a grunt as he stands again, “but I hope you’ll appreciate my thanks.”

“Your thanks?”

He nods, deep in thought. “I don’t say it often enough,” he says, looks at her like he’s worried she’ll turn away. “Thank you. For everything.”

She knows he means a thousand different thanks across a thousand different moments, but right now he’s thanking her for her help on the range and her presence. That much she can digest for now.

Instead of just nodding, she responds.

“You’re welcome, colonel,” she says, and then remembers a similar conversation in his office, “I’d follow you into hell if you asked.”

He smiles, and that’s that.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a commission for the awesome amazing wonderful one-of-a-kind [willoghby](https://willoghby.tumblr.com/)! She's an amazing artist and if you haven't seen her stuff, check it out _right now_.
> 
> You can check out my other writing on here or [tumblr](https://bazaarwords.tumblr.com/), and feel free to drop a line if you'd like.


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